Gravity
by Zelda Aurion
Summary: Sherlock spreads his arms and for one horrible, dizzying moment, John is sure he is going to fly. How could he not? What could possibly make Sherlock-the mad, brilliant, infuriating, beautiful Sherlock Holmes…what could possibly cause him to fall? SPOILERS! Takes place at the end of Reichenbach.


So this is just a little one shot the popped into my head. Basically it's some of Sherlock and John's thoughts and feelings just before and after Sherlock jumps. I did it for the feels! Basicvally this starts immediately after Moriarty shoots himself. Enjoy!

I refuse to say whether this is slash or bromance or what have you. Sherlock and John's relationship is so far beyond definition that I won't even try to label it. Take it in whatever way you like.

On with the show!

Disclaimjer: I am not Moffat, Destroyer of Dreams. Therefore, I own nothing.

* * *

SHJW

* * *

No.

All he can hear is the roar of his own breath in his ears as everything on the planet shifts and lurches. The cool, logical part of his brain-that is to say all of it-knows that the world isn't actually spinning wildly out of control, but he still feels it as shock and dismay and hopelessness take root.

Moriarty. He is dead. His blood drips onto the tiles spreading quickly in the wind that tugs at Sherlock's coat. Brain matter is scattered on the ground and Sherlock dimly notes that one of those pieces may have held the code he needed to save the few people he cares about. But now..it is too late.

The consulting detective never deduced this. Sentiment. Sentiment and arrogance had blinded him and now…it would be his downfall. He looks at the edge of St. Bart's. Literally his downfall.

Three bullets. Three. Logically he knows there is only one way to stop the bullets and yet, he hesitates. Sentiment again. He doesn't think of the risks to himself, he only thinks of three people. Well…one person. The one person who may be harmed.

John.

Sherlock steps up to the edge and sees the taxi pull into view and, as though Sherlock conjured him with his thoughts, John steps out. It doesn't matter. Sherlock knows, always knows the answer. He knows what must be done. And as the phone buzzes in his hand, he knows that the final problem has almost reached its resolution. He lifts the mobile to his ears and John's voice rushes at him through the speakers.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

* * *

John hurries toward the doors to St. Bart's. Sherlock knew Ms. Hudson was all right, but to let John think otherwise meant that the mad man wanted the doctor out of the way. However, being John and being Sherlock's friend, he also knew that Sherlock would only want him gone if something very, very bad was about to happen.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

John doesn't break his stride as he crosses the mercifully empty street. " No, I'm coming in."

"Just. Do as I ask. Please".

This does stop him. John has the most uncontrollable urge to look at his phone to make sure he is not losing signal. Sherlock's voice…it broke. He choked on his words. That doesn't happen. That never happens.

" Where?" John asks, not really sure what he is saying. Sherlock must be nearby, must be able to see him.

" Stop there." John looks frantically around. He doesn't like this. Sherlock sounds…what's the word? Defeated. But that's impossible. Nothing can defeat Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

" Okay, look up," Sherlock says, his voice low. "I'm on the rooftop. "

"Oh god…" He's there. That ridiculously tall frame draped in the long black coat that whips out behind him in the wind. He's perched ion the edge of the hospital's roof, so far up that John almost has to tip his head back just to see him. His black shape is stark against the white sky and all john can focus on is how much empty space is underneath the tip of Sherlock's immaculate shoes.  
"I…" Sherlock stutters. He actually stutters and this has John so afraid, more afraid than the sight of him on that roof because while Sherlock may court danger, he always has something clever to say while doing so. But not now. Now he stutters. Now he sounds broken. " I— I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

" An apology. It's all true." Hollowed. Resigned.

"What?" No…surely he can't mean.

" Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty. " Sherlock lie is so big, John isn't sure how the man isn't choking on it.

"Why are you saying this?"

John hears Sherlock breath, harsh ragged breaths, as though he had run all he could and he couldn't go on anymore. But that's not what undoes John. No, what brings John Watson almost to his knees is the sound of his best friend's voice, choked with tears as he says "I'm a fake."

John feels like he has been punched in the gut. Tears. Sherlock Holmes is crying, or rather desperately trying not to and failing miserably. There is more emotion in those two words than John has ever heard. He is so desperate, so scared so…crushed. And that's what it comes down to. Sherlock doesn't just sound broken…he is broken.

And my god…he is on the roof. The blood fucking roof.

" Sherlock—" _Step back from the edge. Sherlock please!_

"The newspapers were right all along," _No they weren't._ " I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly." _Never. I will never admit to something that is so wretchedly false_. "In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you…that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

_NO!_

" Okay, shut up, Sherlock," John snarls, his own voice low as adrenaline rushes through him. He knows this feeling. It's the deep breath you take before you pull the trigger. It's the moment before you make the incision. It's the moment that soldiers and doctors alike fear because it is on the border of serenity and chaos. Once that line is crossed there is no going back. And John can't live with that. He can't let Sherlock cross that line. He can't leave him on that ledge. "Shut up. The first time we met—" his voice breaks but he forces himself to continue, not masking his desperation- "the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

Sherlock's voice is riddled with a humorless half laugh. "Nobody could be that clever."

" You could." He hears Sherlock laugh this time, a small disbelieving laugh, but he doesn't care. Sherlock needs to know. He HAS to know how much he means to John, how much he means to a great many people. He must never doubt that there are those who faith in him, who will believe him no matter what. John is chief among them. And as he says the words, he lets everything he feels in his heart for that harebrained detective seep into those two little words. _I believe in you. I always will. Do not do this. Do not tear everything you have given me asunder._

Sherlock is still determined to convince him. " I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." John shakes his head, knowing Sherlock can see. Those blue eyes of his are so sharp. They see everything. So why can't they see how desperately John needs Sherlock to step back from that ledge? " It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." Even if it was, it still pulled him out of the darkness and John wouldn't trade that for anything.

"No. "John shakes his head again. He's angry now. "Alright, stop it now." The stubborn fool. Why did he never listen to him? John stomps toward the hospital, determined to yank Sherlock off that roof and beat him senseless until any black thoughts and self doubt he had were rendered inaccessible.  
No!" Sherlock shouts and John freezes, afraid of pushing his friend. "Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

John raises his hand, both to show Sherlock that he won't come closer and to show Sherlock that when it comes down to it, he will always reach for him if he is about to do something incredibly stupid…like fall.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me." His voice is determined, still slightly tearful, but the intent is clear. His brain is moving a mile a minute, his deductions are concluding. His course is being cemented into the tender coils of his brain. "Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" He can't mean…?**  
**Sherlock is hollow now. Empty. The cool calculating scientist, the unfeeling detective. "This phone call, it's... it's my note."

_God no…please no!_

"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?" _Stall him. Ask him anything. Say anything. Talk about the Prime Minister, or the face that it takes a year for the earth to revolve around the sun. Do something, John. Say something to bring him down._

Silence falls.

"Goodbye, John."

The plea is out of John's mouth instantly, even though Sherlock can't hear. The call has disconnected. John drops the phone and screams Sherlock's name, pleading with him, begging him.

Sherlock spreads his arms, that stupidly long black coat billowing out behind him and for one horrible, dizzying moment, John is sure he is going to fly. How could he not? How could Sherlock fall? How could he be brought down to Earth with the rest of us? What could possibly make Sherlock Holmes-the mad, brilliant, infuriating, beautiful Sherlock…what could possibly cause him to fall?

Gravity.

John's running, he is running for all he's worth, ignoring everything around him as Sherlock descends to Earth. It can't be, it just can't be.

WHAM!

Something hits him and John slams into the concrete and everything spins. The entirety of the universe careens out of control as he hits the ground, mere moments after his best friend. People are screaming. Footsteps echo on the pavement beneath his head. He struggles upright. He has to see has to know.

Feet carry him forward. People are in the way. He doesn't push, doesn't have to. He just keeps saying "No…no…he's my friend," and they part for him. John falls to his knees beside the huddled form and reaches for Sherlock's' wrist, begging any listening deity to feel something stirring there.

No pulse.

No. Pulse.

The blood seeps into the knees of John's jeans. More of it runs down that pale beautiful face, pooling around those perfect blue eyes…eyes that will never see again. Eyes that will never look at him with derision when John is slower to deduce who the killer is. Eyes that will never flash with childish glee at the mention of some horrible, violent crime. Eyes that will never reflect a thousand things and thoughts that no other person could possibly understand.

Moriarty didn't just break Sherlock…he shattered him. And as the doctors pull the limp hand out of John's desperate grasp, he can't help but think this must be a joke. That Sherlock will pop around the corner and shake his head at John for being so foolish as to believe that Sherlock would pull such a stupid stunt.

But that doesn't happen. John feels the long elegant fingers slide from his grasp, and he knows.

Sherlock is gone.

* * *

SHJW

* * *

You know that were so blown away by my literary prowess that you want to review, right? Right?!


End file.
